Shine
by greysnyper
Summary: The world is full of shining people and Tim knows all the actors.
1. Chapter 1

When Superboy's performing, he knows those eyes are picking him apart. It's a feeling that cuts through the spotlight glare, and overrides the sensation of a few hundred voices. But now that Kon smells like sweat and leather, and he's standing right at the source, the stranger hardly lifts his eyes.

He sits patiently in a chair that's almost too small for him, content at writing across his form of papers. Even Superboy shaking water out of his hair in the vicinity of the boy doesn't phase him. He knows he's interfering, but there's only the slightest hesitation, and then nothing.

As stage hands rush over to appeal Kon-El with their offerings--water and a towel, his phone and a promise of viewership for his performance--there is no reaction from the boy filling in lines.

What gives?

He has the nerve to march right up to the kid and demand an answer. After all, a person would have to be seriously mental to _not_ be caught awestruck and beaming in the presence of _the_ Superboy.

But at the last minute, Kon-El feels his legs fail him. Even backstage with his reputation, he doesn't want to march forward. Something...holds him back. And his new publicity agent--gift from Lughor--is pulling him away, chattering endlessly about the good performance.

Ugh, it's enough to make Kon want to scream. He already _knows_ he's good.

He pulls his sleeve free and stops being lead. "Who the hell was that?"

"Pardon?" the man grins, a salesman look firmly stashed on his face.

"The dude over there? He was watching the whole show. Is this some talent scout? Did some kid win a contest and nobody filled me in?"

"Oh," the man shrugs, once more indicating that they should move forward. "He's Nightwing's agent. He didn't say anything to you, did he? He's from a rival agency and you know how things start. You shouldn't take things personally, but if you have been harassed I will fix it right away, Superboy."

"An _agent_?" Kon-El can't help but exclaim, spinning about to squint. They've moved far enough away, but the boy still seems to be quietly...doing nothing. "Nobody's that young..."

The publicity man shrugs helplessly. "Wayne's branch of promotions does a lot of things differently. Did you wish to speak with him? It will be no problem if you want to speak with Nightwing. He's due on stage in ten, but I'll make arrangements."

"I've spoken with Nightwing before," scowls Superboy. Benefit concerts, and briefly but still...

Those eyes...not that Kon-El had actually _seen_ them watching him. But the feeling hadn't left. His whole gig had reverted to something uncomfortable. The scrutiny that Superboy hadn't felt since his first few shows. The overpowering pressure of having something to prove...

Kon-El wonders why the imagined attention of this strange kid would have provoked such memories. "I kind of missed it."

"Huh?" the clueless agent asks.

Superboy shakes his head, taking the towel. There's no way that the man next to him will understand it. Sometimes, Superboy just needs to feel like his actions matter. Sure he'll have screaming fans regardless but...

"I think I need to improve." And Kal hadn't said anything like that since before Superboy made it big...

The publicity agent is in arms, protesting--assuring Kon-El that he is the greatest. That Nightwing, though popular world-wide, is still dependent on Superboy warming the crowd.

Superboy knows how good Nightwing is. He's not deprived enough to be envious, rather honouring the other for setting a standard. But "The Boy of Steel" had never known there could be another force behind the superstar.

Let alone one that...won't shake loose. The emotion is still present.

_I was being judged._

"The interview is this way," Kon-El is lead away. And though he can no longer see the stranger by the back of the stage apparatus, he catches himself looking that way anyhow.

"Superboy! Over here--"

"Can you answer a few questions for the Metropolis Teen Report?"

"Smile, Kon-El! Tell us about the show!"

"Superboy, what's new?!"

As his shoulders set with practice, Superboy stares out over the pop of bulbs and the shouts of fans.

And the answer is obvious.

What's changed? Everything,now.

-

Nightwing scares several stagehands senseless when he somersaults off of the back-end of the stage. 

"So?" he chimes.

Hardly looking up from his papers, his agent rubs at his ear with a finger. "You all sing too loud."

The star drops his weight down onto his agent's head. "That's my Timmy. Now come play bodyguard while I go woo the masses."

"I want a Sudoku."

"You're the best manager ever," Dick cheers, marching off and pulling his partner along with him.

Tim doesn't go unwillingly. He just is Tim.

-

Later...

"Did you learn anything?"

"You're still glamourous, and everyone loves you." Tim is nursing his tea with tired eyes. "It's second nature to you."

"Ah," answers the star, rolling his donut around the table like a toy. If he does this long enough, it will make his manager twitch. "That's disappointing."

Tim kicks back and shakes his head. "I don't quite follow your motivations here. You've got everything down perfectly for your career."

Dick's eyes are quite blue when they catch Tim's. "But you still don't feel the magic."

"I can identify the magic," Tim counters. "Doesn't mean I have to feel it."

"You did your paperwork."

Tim shrugs.

Nightwing, sighing, gives his rolling pastry a push. It falls with little drama. "Come on, Tim. Shows are about magic. The shine of the light and the way the performance _moves_ you."

One brow raises. "And five million people were awed by your performance. You should be happy."

"Let me rephrase," sighs Dick. "It should move _you_. But you just did homework."

"_Your_ homework," Tim points out, looking back at the swirlies and floaters in his tea. "It needed to be done and now you're all cleared for your appearance at the Music Awards next month."

"When was the last time you were ever interested in a show? And don't say when you were six..."

Though Dick knows Tim catches the meaning, the other younger man is also adept at keeping any reactions to himself. "I don't need to be interested because I know you'll nail it. It's hard to be lead on when I trust the result already. It's hard to break first impressions, Dick."

Dick lets his head fall back into his seat, as the coffee-shop circulates around them. Nobody has looked twice at the superstar. Tim's chosen this place specifically for it's promise of obscurity. "I guess trust is a good thing, though it wouldn't hurt my ego any to know that my agent worried about me."

Tim's fingers carefully pull his mug around in circles. "You are the very definition of grace and glamour, Dick. Though..." he trails off.

It's Nightwing's turn to raise a brow.

Tim doesn't say more, playing with his thinking thoughts. Dick finally has to kick him from under the table.

Tim hums disapprovingly, but says, "I noticed something from your opening act today."

"Do tell," Nightwing chirps.

"Superboy's the next big thing, and everyone knows it. I've seen him on television and filling spots on shows. He's your basic teenage-heartthrob who can't get enough of himself."

"Here today, gone in two years," Nightwing nods, inwardly flinching. He had met the rising star a few times, and the kid had been likable. The trend is obvious, though.

"But live," continues Tim. "He was different. How to put it...if you have glamour defined in your performance; Superboy is trying to find that definition."

Dick's agent's face is scrunched up, testing the metaphor mentally. It looks like hard work.

"So...trying but not quite there?"

"Nnnnnno," frowns the other, finally ducking his head and returning to his beverage. "Rather, he's trying to garner a reaction from his audience. You don't do that."

"Pardon?"

Tim shrugs a shoulder. "You keep pressing me for my reaction, but you don't go out to make a reaction. You perform because that's what you do. It's your perfected skill. You have your time on the stage and anyone who wants to have an experience gets taken with or without you."

Dick is watching the other carefully, wondering why he can't seem to take Tim with him.

"Kon-El looks like he waits before he starts, and then tries to bring everyone on board with him. He's dependent on the feelings of those around him. You...are self-supplying."

"Uh-huh," Nightwing drawls, incapable of anything further.

Tim shrugs once, and then almost falls back into his meditation.

Dick frowns inwardly, giving his donut a mindless push. This is really the most he and Tim have spoken in the last month, during a single sitting. Usually it's yes or no answers from Tim.

Perhaps something had changed?

"So my self-sufficiency," the star hums, after a moment. "What are the deficiencies with that?"

Dick can think of the issues with Tim's description of Superboy. Dependency on the crowd would mean hell if the audience just isn't in the mood. Privately or pre-recorded shows could also suffer.

"None," Tim states. "You're perfect."

Dick almost wants to ask why he needs an agent, if this is the case.

And Tim would tell him that it's a good question.

"I don't want my donut anymore," he sighs.

"You picked it out, you should eat it," Tim states without glancing up. It reminds Dick of another figure in his life.

It also reminds Dick that he couldn't replace Tim, ever.

Dutifully reaching for the pastry, the celebrity tells himself that his concern is unwarranted. For months now, he had been distracted by the seriousness of his manager--this friend. But Tim wouldn't leave him.

Though if it's not the magic that keeps a good thing present, Dick isn't sure why Tim stays anymore.

Once...

"Your itinerary is planned for the next two quarters," Tim starts to explain, professionally concluding the silence. "Though I can change things on notice, so please let me know if you need extra time. I'd like to know before you run off with Roy or Wally again."

Nightwing nods absently, listening and still...thinking. Because he can't remember the last time he had seen Tim smile.

Yes, that _has_ to be it.

Dick bites his donut, distantly dwelling on it. His own private problem, that Tim won't worry over for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Dick hangs out at the pay phone, watching the navy shades of rain glisten past the off-white glow of his booth. The sun will be scattering the shadows, turning the wet, cool world into shades of gray soon. Morning is the only time he knows he'll get through to Roy this week.

"You do remember the golden rule of showbiz," yawns the other, half a world away. It's not that Roy is still in bed. It's probably lunchtime in London.

A lone car putters past and Dick shifts further inside his box. "Yeah," he answers dully.

"You can't win everyone, all the time," Roy continues, unphased. "There was this Spanish girl..."

"If you tell me that story one more time," sighs Dick, "there will be a magazine that hears a very interesting rumour about you."

Roy laughs, the voice warm over the receiver. "If this is about Tim, I don't know what you're worried about. He's still your biggest fan."

"I know," Dick's voice drops a tone. 

"People show it in different ways. Just be glad he's not smelling your shoes or commandeering your old costumes to wear at odd hours of the night. Or if he is...because _that_ would be hot."

Dick clears his throat, not willing to sound bemused. The ghost of sirens haunt the quiet street.

"Ah hell, the director is shouting at me. We're shooting early because it's due to rain," laments the voice on the phone. "If you want, I'll call you back later."

Shaking his head, Dick closes with, "I'm not sure _what_ I want."

A pair of firetrucks, lights blazing, rip by a street away. The flashers dazzle the rain-play and Dick's eyes follow the light as they disappear, back to ghost noises. Somewhere, something is burning.

He almost wants to follow. Putting the phone to its cradle, Dick steps back into the rain.

Tim will kill him if Tim knows Dick is still out at this hour. Though any anger or disappointment or even reproving, those just won't show.

Tim's in the business, and he really won't show anything.

"Maybe that's it," Dick hums, a lone figure in the rain.

-

Tim's watch wakes him at seven. For a moment, he rolls over and smothers the alarm, but it rouses him finally.

"Geh," he yawns, thinking hard. No, there's time. Dick doesn't need to be anywhere until noon today so...

He remembers the door opening in his dream, so maybe Dick has come over. A coffee would be bliss right now.

Rolling out of bed, Tim slams his bare toes into the side of his guitar.

This illicits a groan, and Tim reaches down to pick up his treasure. Then he dumps it with half-ceremony onto the bed and marches out of the room.

There is a puddle and shoes by the back entrance. He doesn't notice this until he steps in it. Though Tim lives in his small, separate space, Dick has a key.

The little window in the door shows clear skies, though the pavement is wet. Tim doesn't remember it raining, but the paper will know.

Wiping his toes on the welcome mat that the previous tenant kept, Tim yawns once more and steps into the little kitchen. Dick had once called the space microscopic. Tim doesn't need much more, though.

He'd work this job for free if he could. For now, the percentage that he siphons from Nightwing--by a contract Tim had reluctantly sighed--it all goes into a college fund that Tim doesn't think he'll ever use.

Not that he is beyond an education, but he's already studied all the important things in his spare time. He gets a lot of spare time, these days. 

A small note is waiting on the table.

_Timmy. I stayed up all night. I'm crashing here so you can wake me up and we'll be out the door for the airport. You know how I need my coffee. -NW_

Tim scowls at the note, aware that on the other side of the dividing wall, Dick will be camping out on his couch. The mood doesn't stay. Tim turns on the stove, content in his truth that Dick will forevermore be Dick.

It's why he's here in the first place.

Dick takes up the entire sofa, when Tim steps into the adjoining room. Snoring softly, it's obvious that if Tim had dropped a few dishes the other would not have stirred.

Tim hums approvingly, moving carefully regardless. His newspaper is on the nightstand by the superstar's head.

He freezes when his fingers catch more than just the paper. There's sheet music resting under the news, and the pages stick. Well, all but one which falls into the crook of Dick Grayson's arm.

Tim's brows furrow, but Dick doesn't stop breathing noisily. Carefully, Tim brings the newspaper and excess pages to his chest while he reaches over the lift the offending sheet free. The page that had fallen is blank.

Giving the pages a look of displeasure, Tim retreats from the room to read in the kitchen. He must have left his notes out last night. They're not ready for show.

They may never be.

Stacking the five stray pages neatly, Tim makes a note to drop them into his guitar case with the others. When he lifts up the paper, the entertainment section is full of news from the day before. The benefit concert takes the first two pages.

Tim skips the header about Superboy to read about what reporters are saying about his client.

-

It's dark in Hawaii, with morning a few hours off. Kon-El thinks he should be tired, but sleep is far from his mind.

Stepping across the tarmac of the airport, he realizes that he's not listening to a word his agent is saying.

"What?"

The man stops, and frowns. "I was saying that you have that commercial this afternoon. That's lots of time to rest and be ready for it. Mr. Luthor is counting on you."

"He's always counting on me," Superboy mutters, looking out at the wide area surrounding the airport. Tropical trees and grass grow at the border of the concrete. He knows that beyond the line of palm trees, just out of sight is the ocean. On Hawaii at night, everything is pitch dark.

The agent sighs, turning to his cell phone. A moment later, he's shouting at someone for not bringing any fans out to greet the Boy of Steel.

"...I don't care how late it is," hisses the agent. "Isn't there a fanclub?"

Kon ignores the voice, not really needing to explain himself right now. He isn't sure if he could.

Commercials are great, since he had been trying for a television spot for a few months now. He's nominated for many of the upcoming Teen Choice awards. Yesterday's concert had been incredibly exciting, and yet...

"The sky is the limit," his manager finally says, giving Kon-El a pat on the back while he shoves his lifeline back into his pocket. Kon wonders if the man will die if he doesn't get to yell at someone at least twice a day. "The whole world loves you, even if they're not here showing you that right now."

Superboy makes a sound, not entirely agreeing. He already _knows_ that he can have anything that he asks for. His sponsor is a powerful man, personally invested in Superboy's success and subsequent happiness.

There's probably a few critics who think Superboy will be a momentary sensation, before he's claimed by obscurity. Kon-El is very much aware of the trend. It used to get him down before he realized the extent of Luthor's interest in him.

Kon-El can have the world, if he wants. And people will be paid to love him, much like his manager. He'll never be lonely or ambiguous again.

_Always shining,_ had been the exact promise.

And yes, he could run with it. Superboy had _been_ running with it for months now. The music scene, the television scene. There's the movie coming up. He would do it, and be brilliant at it.

Except yesterday...something happened.

Now and again, Kon-El thinks he can feel something--a part of him that notices more than he thinks it should. He doesn't even know how to explain it to himself, let alone any of his people.

And yesterday, some part of him noticed the attention he received from that other boy. The one working for Luthor's rival, Bruce Wayne. Nightwing's agent or manager or whatever.

And now he's not happy. The shine isn't enough.

He hadn't visually confirmed the other watching him. He doesn't know why he felt so picked apart--dissected. Nothing else around him had changed as he did what he did best. The only difference in the show had been the boy waiting for his client's show, sitting in that chair and not even looking at Kon when he walked by. It--

"Oh God, I'm just tired," he sighs, rubbing at his temple as they near the parking lot.

This is all in his head, and by the commercial shoot the boy will be the farthest thing from Kon-El's mind.

He's famous, and he's happy this way. The agent could very well be feeding this to Kon.

Though Superboy hasn't once spoken to the stranger from the day before, he wonders if he'd hear something very different.

_I shine._

And the boy would say...

Something explodes and the noise is too loud for Kon's hearing to take. He feels the pavement and he feels his weight carried. The pitch black Hawaiian night is burning.

When the roar stops, Kon-El is on his back staring up at starlight and embers that dance above him. And the strange boy is still talking to him, his answer incapable of being understood.

The car burns, and his manager is nowhere in sight. Kon's alone for the first time tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

With his carry-on, Tim looks around the airport as it bustles with life. Dick wants to finish talking to their cab driver. Tim's pocket vibrates.

Shifting the strap on his shoulder, Tim fishes for his phone and flips it open. He recognizes the number.

"Hello, Drake here," he answers, as habit.

Barbara greets him back. "Oh good, I wanted to catch you both before the flight."

"Well, you have about forty minutes," Tim assesses. She had sounded almost rushed. "What is it?"

"Did you read the news?"

Tim frowns as Dick rejoins him, leading the way to the proper line-up. They'll check their baggage with the rest of the fliers, and then head off to their own private flight. "I skimmed the paper this morning. There wasn't anything special."

In the background, Tim can make out Barbara typing. "Not _that_. Papers wouldn't have covered it. The online news."

"Haven't had time," answers Tim. "I had to drag someone out of bed so we'd even make it here on time. Don't you work at a library? What are you doing online all day, anyhow?"

Dick's attention falls on Tim. "Is that Babs? Hey, give me the phone."

Tim puts an arm out, trying to navigate his luggage between himself and Dick. Dropping down the phone, Tim hisses, "why don't you take your cap off and go wave to some teenage girls or something."

Dick snorts and Babs laughs on the other end. Her voice doesn't seem to carry any weight. "Oh Tim, this is serious."

"It's serious," Tim repeats to Dick, aware that he'll lose any fight for the call. He returns his ear to the phone. "What's serious?"

The way Tim's body stills is a sign for Dick. The star draws back and makes himself wait patiently.

"No motive?" Tim asks.

Dick continues to hold back, refraining himself from asking if anything is wrong.

Tim isn't panicking yet, though Dick's not sure he's ever seen the other lose his cool.

"Thanks. I'll pass you on to Dick and get to work." The phone drops once more and Tim is almost grave. He's speaking to Dick now. "Someone blew up Kon-El's car this morning. Killed the kid's manager. Though it's not related, I'm going to raise security for your trip and have some officers look over the plane."

Dick frowns and takes the phone. It is very like Tim to take initiative, not willing to wait for Bruce Wayne himself to install added security.

Maybe it's running through Tim's head, the calculations and motives. The reaction from the press and how this may even affect Dick's standing in public perception now that his rival has a quote--"bigger story"--unquote.

He's pulling the warm cell to his own ear. "Is Kon-El okay?"

Tim gives a single nod, and Barbara affirms it personally. "Everyone's reporting him in pretty good shape. There's no comment yet."

Tim reaches for Dick's share of the luggage. "I'll check these in. You keep your eyes open while I summon some help."

It's not spoken, but Dick understands Tim's focus now. _Your safety is my concern._

"You be careful," he catches himself calling. In a few moments, he'll have a security guard. Even if it is all unrelated.

"Sometimes it takes a disaster to make us realize how fragile we all are," Barbara states.

Dick nods, aware that his old flame knows this better than anyone.

He doesn't think he needs to tell her that with Tim, it may not even take a disaster. "I don't think my agent needs an excuse to be careful."

Babs' voice is like a miracle, over the vast distance between Gotham and here. "I thought Tim would want to know as soon as I found out."

"World's a scary place," Dick sighs, uncertain as to how he really feels about Superboy. When Tim had been pushing Dick out of the apartment, Dick had grabbed the paper for the taxi ride. Front page, and with his conversation at the coffee shop the evening prior..."It's a little shocking. What does Bruce think?"

There's a snort. "How would I know, Boy Wonder? He doesn't ever talk to me." Her tone shifts, though--softer. "But I'm certain he trusts you to be aware of your surroundings. He doesn't check in on you, after all."

"No," Dick hums. "He doesn't."

"He trusts you."

Dick almost shakes his head, wanting to repeat his denial.

Someone is coming up behind him. "I gotta go Babs. Tim probably needs his phone."

Two men in airport uniforms approach, professionally asking Dick if he is Mr. Grayson. From over a dozen people, Dick can barely make out Tim's extended arm, flashing him a thumbs-up.

"Make me proud out there," is Barbara's reply before the line dies.

There probably is no relation between Nightwing and the attack on Superboy, Dick notes. But copy-cat crimes occur when something big happens. It bolsters the twisted individuals who would imagine attempting such a task, but who would never actually try it. One successful attempt would be the breaking-point. It bothers Dick that he knows this.

"We'll be delayed for half an hour," Tim chirps, sounding like an actor reading from a script. "But everyone who is expecting you, they've been notified. The show will go on."

"Yeah," Dick nods, not feeling the motivation as he reaches over with Tim's phone.

He thinks the inspecting look Tim gives him is meaningful. Dick wants to return the look, but then there's another officer of the law between them.

Casting his eyes to his feet, Dick moves forward.

-

_The show must go on._

Luthor is in agreement, even if he has had to delay production for a few days. His star actor couldn't perform well with the few cuts and scrapes unhealed. But before Kon-El was as good as new, they'd arrange for a few interviews. Get the boy to talk about his feelings.

The press and the public would eat that up.

The official letter from Bruce Wayne had stated that the incident was "unfortunate"--_our hearts and minds are with Kon-El..._

Probably a large donation of flowers at the hospital, too, which Luthor could top with a phone call.

He'll make a personal visit, as well. 

"Unfortunate." It was a good word, though far from the truth. Everything is going according to plan. He'll use the word in his visit, as well as the always famous tag-line for the performance world.

Recover; then the show will go on.


	4. Chapter 4

As air resistance rattles their plane, Tim's pen stops moving. And then it resumes. Dick's watched his manager scrawl through pages and pages of notes.

Plans, probably. Contingencies and ponderous what-ifs; the notebook is likely an assassin's dream.

Since boarding two hours ago, Tim hasn't stopped writing. And Dick hasn't felt like talking, so he watches. It's astounding how in depth his manager will get with his work.

Tim's an artist. Dick's been suspicious for some time now of Tim's hand in his songwriting. Sometimes, small changes happen in Nightwing's work. He'll spend days brainstorming with friends, and professionals. Tim's always present, but usually silent. The boy runs errands and makes it his business to assure everyone their comfort.

And yet the subtle changes are always better. Dick's seen Tim act like a thesaurus. Ask for a word and Tim can offer a new meaning.

This is rare, though. The eloquence hides.

There's probably no room for creativity in Tim's notebooks. Just plans for plans, and things he'll start to do as soon as the plane lands. By the end of the day Dick will immersed in some kind of system. He can't doubt that he'll be safer for it but…

He clears his throat.

Blue eyes look up at him, leaking serious concentration.

"Superboy survived the accident."

Tim starts to speak. He'll probably say something about how the car bomb had been anything _but_ an accident. How luck is not something that Tim will account for. Some other be-all and end-all reply that could just as well come from Bruce's mouth—if Bruce ever spoke with Dick anymore.

Dick narrows his eyes and continues before Tim can. "His _manager_ died."

The notebook droops slightly, Tim's face an unreadable mask. Save for the eyes, but then they're dropping away, too.

Wordless.

-

The boy had been silent, and Kon chalks it up to drug-induced dreams.

The hospital clothes look ridiculous and there's one nurse who won't stop poking at his stitches. Kon-El is ready to snap at her, but she's probably the closest thing to a mother-figure that he'll have.

Maybe it's the drugs that are making him miss that.

He feels like he's missing a lot, today. The attempt on his life, which he can barely believe still; the death of Josh, who Kon had never really liked, though he didn't hate the man either. His manager had been just another face.

And now he's dead.

Kon wonders if he should feel more for the guy. Superboy hadn't been paying attention. His manager may very well have saved his life, being in the way of the blast. Intentionally?

Why hadn't Kon sensed anything? Isn't there an inner alarm that warns people when something is amiss? Kon thinks he has one...maybe.

He feels like he had always been safe, but the glass pulled from his cheek should say otherwise.

He resists the urge to rub at it, wishing that the nurse would come scold him some more. At least she treated him like a person who didn't deserve special treatment. She is the sort of woman who would grant him his basic human rights.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Doesn't he deserve that?

When he closes his eyes, the boy is still not looking at him. It's the stage again, and he's about to be judged. No guarantee of love or impression. He comes to the floor with no history to promote him. Just the person he is, and all that he could be.

It's amazing, how that feels. Vulnerable, yet real.

_I shine_, he'd say.

And the boy answers…

"Look at you!" The door flies open and Kon can't help but jump. It's a sick thought that tells Kon-El that he's more startled now than he had been on the tarmac. Big as life, Lex Luthor stands in the doorframe. "You certainly are a trooper."

Kon blinks, and finds himself nodding dumbly.

"It's so unfortunate," continues the man. "But I've no doubt that you will endure."

"I'm just…a bit shaken up. It's hard to take in."

"No doubt," Luthor shakes his head. He's wearing all white—formal. His face is a well of expressions. "That kind of thing is unbelievable. Are they treating you well, Kon? If you need to talk about this…"

Kon swallows, wondering if he should talk about the experience. He hadn't been overwhelmed, but the way Luthor is extending the option Kon wonders if he _should_ be more deeply bothered.

"It was…loud."

The man's head nods, a look of genuine pity gracing Kon. "We'll take care of you, Kon. Some people in this world, they're just…" he trails off looking distraught. "You can't blame yourself."

"Loud," Kon murmurs, feeling stifled. Maybe he _is_ repressing, though it had taken the arrival of his boss to make him realize it. _Loud that it drowns out everything._

"But you're a hero," Luthor whispers. His eyes are bright when Kon looks up. "They don't understand it, but you are."

"Maybe."

Luthor holds still, and for a moment Kon wonders…he's not sure what he wonders. Something obvious is being missed. He can _feel_ it. Like eyes on the stage, only this time it's _heavier_. The man then smiles, close-lipped and soft. "My boy, you're quite modest."

Kon can't keep the stare. He turns away and says, "I want to do my commercial. I don't want to stay here for long." _I don't need to stay. I'm not broken…_

Luthor almost grows in height. He extends an arm, almost dramatically. "There's the Superboy I know and love. You _will_ get your commercial. We may not have to push back the movie, either. Though it's tragic about Mr. Josh, you'll have a new manager by the end of the day. There are many people interested; they'd almost work for free."

Something dangles before Kon, and he wants to reach out and realize it. "For the manager…"

Luthor is looking at him with a raised brow. "Yes?"

Kon blinks, not sure what to ask. "Nightwing."

"I'm not following," Lex Luthor states. His eyes are grey and sharp, demanding comprehension. Nightwing is a rival. _We don't talk about Nightwing._

Kon-El has the urge to retract his statement altogether. "I met his manager the other day."

"Yes?"

His mouth feeling dry, Superboy shrugs one shoulder—the one that doesn't ache—helplessly. "He seemed very…professional. I guess."

The hesitation from the other man makes Kon wonder if he's about to be reprimanded. He doesn't know why, but he feels like it's deserved. He knows he can't have Nightwing's manager, and he doesn't even understand why or if he wants him. Kon-El doesn't even have a name for the other, let alone a moment of _meeting_ him like he's just said.

"Alright," comes a careful answer. "I'll look into it."

Kon nods. "Thanks."

Lex's smile is tight. "Anything for _my_ star."

--

A silver tray settles gently on the counter. "I've sent the proper reply, and the flowers, Sir."

"Flowers?"

"You are aware of the incident in Hawaii."

"Oh yes. That. Very good."

The pause is almost cavernous.

"I _said_ that was good. You are dismissed."

The original speaker takes the hint, but finds time to clear his throat, first. "Perhaps you owe a second reply, Sir?"

"Do I?"

"It would be encouragement for your ward, I'd assume."

Another pause. "He's fine."

"You've checked in, then?" is a hopeful question, and knowing statement.

"He has Tim."

The elderly man hums. "You think highly of Master Drake."

Of _course_ Bruce does. He had been surprised when the boy initially arrived, easily bridging the gap between Richard and the world. It was almost as if the kid had been designed to fill Bruce's need—someone capable of looking out for Dick. And capable, Tim is. 

If Tim didn't mean as much to the celebrity, Bruce would have extended the same offer he had given to Richard, all those years ago.

And unlike Richard, Tim would have stayed. And maybe, there'd never be forgiveness.

"He knows his place," Bruce answers.

Alfred, as always, measures the silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Luthor sits behind the thick glass window separating technicians from the studio. Lex doesn't need to tell anyone here how to do their job, so he focuses on the television screen that's closed in on Kon-El's face.

There's a patch of gauze still taped to the star's left jaw, but the effect is visible. The moment Kon had appeared on Vickie Vale's talk show, the three hostesses had been feeding the boy sympathy.

"You're quiet," the red-head muses, reaching out and putting a hand on Kon-El's knee. "You're _always_ so full of energy."

The boy drops his head and murmurs about how he just needs some time to adjust, though he's glad that she's bringing up his habits since it serves as a reminder on where he needs to go.

Luthor frowns, aware that he maybe should have briefed the boy prior to the show. How to say things, and what to focus on. But this _will_ do, since Vickie Vale loves to ask the questions that narrow in on any perceived trauma. And Kon-El won't make denials, so he steps carefully around with his answers.

It comes off as endearing, though some added angst would not hurt the boy's reputation any. He's been unusually modest.

Lex rubs at the dust between his eyes and thinks back to the afternoon in the hospital. What had the boy been thinking, when he brought up Nightwing's manager? This incident didn't fit in any of Luthor's contingencies. He finds it very annoying.

If Superboy had had a run-in with the other, his manager would have reported it. Josh knew his place and went directly to Luthor with _everything_ that Kon-El did or wanted. For all of the man's faults, Josh at least did his job well. Kon-El should have had no time for contact between leaving the stage and facing the reporters at the benefit concert.

Kon-El wants a different kind of manager now. It's enough to run a background check on Nightwing's man, and instruct Josh's replacement to be less obvious. He'll tell the boy that from what little information that Kon had communicated--Kon seemed to avoid the subject now, whenever it was brought up--Lex had _tried_ to choose the best man for the job.

The boy isn't brazen enough to make demands to Lex's face. The managers served as go-betweens, taking Kon-El's complaints and giving Luthor the means to keep the kid happy.

Things are delicate enough, and Luthor isn't ready to show his final card just yet. Whatever was distracting Luthor's celebrity would have to be uncovered and put down.

_You just need to shine,_ he thinks to himself. _Remember that this is what you are made for._

Kon says something and Vickie's co-hosts seem to melt. Superboy's smile shows briefly, as if he's remembering his place; his skill.

Luthor smiles, too.

_It's the _only_ thing that you're made for._

-

"Okay," Dick leans forward, his voice possessing a tell-tale trace of a slur. "So they give me this guitar and the director, she's fresh out of Art school. And she tells me that they're going to play a recording of one of my songs, uh...'Spirit of Thursday' I think."

Wally straightens up. "Oh, I know this commercial! Go on."

Dick's arms flail a little. "She asks me to listen, now mind you, she's not directing. Just being polite and telling me that if I _feel_ like it..."

"I hate those," laughs Roy, his voice muffled. There's a small speaker set up on the coffee table. The action-star has yet to return from Europe. "I'd trade buddy-buddy directors for someone who can guarantee that I'll be off the set at exactly four-o'clock. Artsy directors are never satisfied, but they don't want to _tell_ you where the problem is."

"Just want you to do things differently," Wally nods.

"So I have this guitar and I'm supposed to listen to my song and she says that when I get to the part of the recording that I feel is the most passionate, I'm to charge at this giant replica of Wayne Corp.'s new music phone, and I'm to slam the guitar into it." Dick stops to suck on his bottle. "God, that phone is just ugly when it's so big."

"Reminds me of--"

Wally cuts Roy off, giving the table a push that Roy won't feel. "We _know_ Roy. There's a minor here, so talk nice."

Dick Grayson and Wally West sprawl across leather chairs, with Roy's glass table in the middle, quickly becoming cluttered with cans and bottles. The room is open, with a track-style floor leading to a customized, metal staircase leading up to a second level. The stairs curl around a post and they stretch higher than any reasonable house requires.

Tim sits on a step with a notebook by his foot, and a novel in his hands. "I've already established an opinion for you three," he mutters. "Don't worry about it getting any worse now."

Dick snorts, toasting his glass. "I've _earned_ that opinion."

"Were you on the set?" Wally calls over to Tim, conversationally. Tim had been silent for almost an hour, after last refusing a drink.

"He was," Dick nods. "Barely said anything."

Tim keeps from adding anything now, too.

Roy is probably shaking his head in the hotel room he's communicating from. "I bet he's mad that we're dissing the director, when he thinks she's ingenious. Tim's artsy, right?'

Wally catches Dick's eyes on him, and he turns to look. Dick is staring at his friend, and almost asking for something. Wally frowns, trying to piece it together.

Roy had mentioned a phone conversation with Dick...

"What _did_ you think of the commercial shoot?" Wally asks, turning back to regard Tim. The Flash needs to strain over the side of the couch to fully see the boy on the steps.

Tim shrugs a shoulder, folding his book closed while keeping his place locked with a finger. "It's sad that Dick ruined a perfectly good guitar."

Wally raises a brow. "Oh yeah?"

"Metallic blue, maple wood," Tim shakes his head. "The director did her homework."

Roy steps in. "That's the kind of guitar you used to play back when we were a garage band, Dick."

"And now it's garbage," Tim says, with a trace of bitterness.

"Do you play the guitar?" Wally inquires, almost jumping on the chance to keep talking. He's starting to form his own theories as to why Dick had been so keen on inviting Tim along. It's not like Wally's ever going to say no, though the red-headed performer is starting to realize that there's a lot he doesn't know about Dick's manager.

When Tim had declined to join them directly at the table--excusing himself as a designated driver and content in whatever fiction he had brought--Dick had almost polished off a round of drinks with reckless abandon, as if hoping this would earn a reaction from his manager.

Tim had said nothing, though Wally's smart enough to know that the boy is acute enough to notice these things.

Wally has Dick's attention now, and it looks like Tim finally has something to say. "I play a little."

"Then you should join in next time we're writing or jamming," Wally points out. "You hang around at enough of those, you _know_ it's not exclusive."

"It's not a big deal," Tim dismisses, dropping his eyes back to his book. Wally feels the stare from Dick that's almost certainly asking for Wally's help now.

"Can you play 'Smoke on the Water?'" Roy presses. The timing is gold, and the question is perfect.

Even Tim's pride is ruffled by Roy's mocking tone. He scowls. "What do you take me for? _Anyone_ can play that."

Pleased with the contribution, Wally notes that he's never had to question why Roy seamlessly fits in their group. If Donna weren't always out modeling and if Roy would shoot films in North America for a change, they could almost reenact old times.

With a subtle change, of course. Tim would always be welcome.

"What about 'Spirit of Thursday?'" Wally hums.

With distance and lighting, it's hard to tell if Tim's face flushes, though Wally knows that the boy is pointedly _not_ looking back at them. "Maybe."

Wally raises a brow and sneaks a glance at Dick. The other's face is set in something new and triumphant. _New knowledge, then?_

Dick's eyes slip over to meet Wally's stare. "I think I'm going to need one more bottle."

Celebration.

Wally shifts, ready to cross back to the kitchen. "You need anything Tim?"

Grateful that the conversation's changed, Tim shakes his head. The boy nudges his discarded notebook, sliding it an inch across the stair. Sure he could play anything by Nightwing.

In comparison, his own work is just lame.

"Did I mention that they're letting me shoot an actual rocket launcher?" Roy jumps in, commanding the direction that their conversation will now take.

"There's a reason to drink," Dick laughs. "Don't kill anyone."

Content with simply co-existing, Tim turns back to his fiction. He'll note that Dick's mood is lighter, now. It's almost as if the star has something figured out.


End file.
